


1949

by petersnotkingyet



Series: The Only Good [1]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Also TOM RIDDLE IS STILL THE BAD GUY, He also sees Edmund as more naive than he probably is, It's a little dark, M/M, Manipulation, Sort of underage depending on how you look at it?, Tom is highkey manipulative, Tom is like 16-22 and Edmund is 13-19, idk - Freeform, this is just halfway sympathetic bc it's his point of view
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 07:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16236926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petersnotkingyet/pseuds/petersnotkingyet
Summary: It drove him crazy sometimes to know that Edmund, the freckle-faced boy in front of him who was barely a teenager, had been a king.  He’d led armies and held power while Tom was still little better than a schoolboy.  Tom swallowed down his discontentment and pulled Edmund into his lap.  It made him feel better to know that he got to manhandle a once-king.





	1949

In the summer of 1943, Tom Riddle met Edmund Pevensie and knew at once that he was no ordinary Muggle.  Despite being freckle-faced and small for his age, he seemed much older than thirteen.  The way he carried himself was regal, and the hushed conversations he had with his siblings always seemed much more serious than other children’s talk of games and friendships and school.  He couldn’t be a wizard though.  Edmund was plenty old enough for Hogwarts, but Tom had never seen him before. 

Tom saw him much more often than he had expected to.  Edmund frequented the same shops as him, small, dusty little stores with a penchant for unknowingly requiring magical artefacts.  By the third time Tom saw Edmund’s hands drift to clutch something magical, he knew there was something different about this Muggle boy.  When he overheard a low conversation between Edmund and his sister—a lively younger girl with copper hair—about a wardrobe and a lion, he knew he had to have Edmund, just like he had every other thing of any worth in the miserable Muggle city.

“You’re a Pevensie, aren’t you?” Tom said when he finally managed to catch Edmund on a trip to the shops without his siblings.  Edmund didn’t respond like most thirteen year olds would when cornered by an older boy.  He didn’t curl in on himself protectively, nor puff out his chest to seem bold.  His posture didn’t change.  His chin stayed up.  He carefully set the item he’d been examining—an old portkey—back on the shelf before pausing to give Tom an appraising look.

“That’s right,” Edmund said.

“I’ve heard about you,” Tom said, like he hadn’t deliberately gone asking.  “They say you and your siblings came back from the countryside odd.”

“The war changed everyone,” Edmund said.  The line sounded rehearsed.  “My name is Edmund by the way, not just Pevensie.”

“Tom Riddle.”

“That sounds familiar,” Edmund said.

“I used to go to school with your brother,” Tom said.  He’d considered pursuing Peter to find out what had happened to the Pevensies in the country side.  That would have been more convenient.  They were the same age, and there was already a degree of rapport from the classes they’d had together before Tom went to Hogwarts.  But he’d taken one look at Peter and seen the broad, confident shoulders of a boy who’d been well-praised since he took his first steps, and he knew it would never work.  Edmund was what Tom needed, scrappy, ambitious, and attention-starved.  Edmund was a second son.  Second sons were always hungrier.  “I transferred to a boarding school in Scotland.”

“That’s right,” Edmund said, recognition dawning on his face.  He didn’t ask, but Tom knew he was wondering how the orphanage could afford to send him to Scotland.  Everyone always did.  “How are you, Tom?”

Edmund Pevensie quickly became the best thing about Muggle London.  He was a project for Tom to work on.  Thinking about how to get his stories out of him gave Tom an escape from miserable nights in the orphanage, listening to children whine and babies scream.  It took the better part of two summers to get the truth out of him, but Tom didn’t mind.  He took his time with it.  He let Edmund see just enough to be suspicious without ever violating the statute of secrecy.  He made vague statements and wouldn’t answer questions.  He traveled just a little too fast, dressed just a little too strangely, smiled just a little too smoothly.

Things changes the second summer when they both knew each other’s secrets.  Edmund was fourteen now, but he was also much older.  He was growing into himself, but he still let Tom push him against a wall in an empty alley and kiss him senseless.  The other Pevensies didn’t know the extent of Tom and Edmund’s interactions, but older two didn’t care for his presence around their brother.  Lucy was less judgmental, but she looked at Tom like she knew too much.  He did his best to avoid all three of them.

Edmund told Tom everything after his third trip to Narnia.  It wasn’t ideal that the kingdom was inaccessible, but Edmund was still useful to have around.  It wasn’t often that Tom met another boy who could think like a ruler, and he needed something to occupy his summers away from Hogwarts.

“This will be your last year of school, won’t it?” Edmund said one day a few weeks before Tom was scheduled to return to school. 

“Yes,” Tom said, “but I anticipate I will be back to London.”

“You will?” Edmund said.  The response came a bit too fast, a bit too hopeful.  Tom smiled.

“Yes,” he said.  “I have some business to attend to in… my part of London, if you understand.”

Edmund nodded.  It was comical to see a look so serious on a face so young, and Tom had to bite down a laugh.  “And will you only be in your part of London?” he asked.

“I think I could be persuaded venture out,” Tom said.  Edmund smiled, cheeks flushed.

“You’ll write to me this year, won’t you?” he asked.  Tom nodded.

“Yes,” he said.  “You’ll need to learn to use owls, though.”

“That’s so odd,” Edmund laughed.  “Even in Narnia, owls don’t carry the mail.”

“No, they just talk to the king,” Tom said.  It drove him crazy sometimes to know that Edmund, the freckle-faced boy in front of him who was barely a teenager, had been a king.  He’d led armies and held power while Tom was still little better than a schoolboy.  Tom swallowed down his discontentment and pulled Edmund into his lap.  It made him feel better to know that he got to manhandle a once-king.

The next summer, Tom’s return to London was extended by Dippet rejecting him for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.  Ultimately, it made little difference.  He’d gotten what he wanted, and Edmund—gentle, naïve Edmund who’d once controlled a nation—was happy to have him back in London.  His siblings still held no fondness for Tom, though.  Once, when he had gone to pick Edmund up while his brother was home, he’d caught Peter gripping him by the arm and heard a name that Edmund had always gone skittish when he mentioned.

_Caspian._

At once, Tom knew that Peter understood what he and Edmund got up to when they were out.  He knew that Caspian was someone else who had put his hands on Edmund.  Tom had to soothe himself with the knowledge that Caspian never would again.  Edmund couldn’t get back to Narnia.  Based on the way Edmund had described the passage of time there, Caspian was likely dead by now.  Still, he resolved to ask Edmund about him.

“Who was Caspian?” Tom asked that night, taking care to speak in past tense.

“I,” Edmund stuttered.  “I’ve told you about him.”

“Yes,” Tom said patiently.  “You’ve told me he was a king of Narnia and you traveled with him on the Dawn Treader, but who was he to you?”

“We were together,” Edmund said, staring down at his hands.  “It was a long time ago.”

“Yes,” Tom agreed, taking the opportunity to examine Edmund while the younger boy wasn’t looking.  It was as miraculous as anything he’d seen in the wizarding world that the lanky teenager in front of him held two lifetimes.  Still, Tom Riddle had owned him since he was thirteen years old.  “A very long time ago.”

The London years were one of the very few periods of contentment in Tom Riddle’s life.  He was finally free of the damned orphanage and the do-good restraints of Hogwarts.  He worked at Borgin and Burks and traveled often, seeking objects he never told Edmund about.  When he wasn’t away, Edmund was always waiting.  He left campus as often as he was allowed, and when he couldn’t, Tom came to him.  He enjoyed the way the other boys stared at odd Pevensie and the strange older boy who was always with him.  Peter was still around though, since Muggles required an extra year of schooling.  He’d given up on forcing Edmund apart from Tom and taken up inviting himself along to supervise.  That limited their conversations.  Tom had no desire to clue Peter in on the wizarding world, and he doubted Edmund had told his siblings that he knew about Narnia.

It got easier to sneak around once Peter graduated.  He went away for university, and with Susan and Lucy on the other side of the city, there was no one left to be suspicious.  Edmund was leaving boyhood behind for a second time.  Everywhere else, he was as confident and competent as a man twice his age, but for Tom he was always gentle and naïve.  When they talked about war and ruling, he always spoke of justice.  He never asked questions when Tom’s hypotheticals went darker.  Tom couldn’t have created a more perfect sounding board for his plans.

Edmund graduated, but he didn’t go far.  He was out of London, but, as Tom was quick to assure him, distance meant little to wizards.  College kept him busier, but Tom was busy too.  His trips after artefacts were becoming more and more lucrative.  They still saw plenty of each other, but Edmund’s role had changed.  He was too intelligent for Tom to discuss everything with him without Edmund becoming aware of his real intent.  Tom had no doubt that Edmund, the _just_ king, would not approve of his plans.  No matter how different from most he was, he was still a Muggle.

Tom was fond of him though.  He held no contempt toward Edmund, unlike every other Muggle.  For a magicless child born into what would become a war-torn country, he had done remarkably well for himself.  Tom would make sure no harm came to him once he was in power.  Edmund wouldn’t like it at first, but he would learn to be content.

On November 4th, 1949, Tom Riddle left London.  He was only gone for a week.  Upon his return, he went almost immediately to see Edmund.  The trip had been fruitless, and he was in need of a little stress relief.  When the nineteen year old failed to answer the door, Tom let himself in, intending to wait until Edmund returned from whatever errand he was on.

Instead, he found Susan Pevensie inside.  She was two years younger than Tom’s own 22, but in that moment, she looked ancient.  Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun on top of her head.  There was no makeup on her face, and her eyes were read and puffy.  Her dress was wrinkled, as if she’d slept in it.  She looked, Tom realized slowly, grief-stricken.

“Tom,” Susan breathed, barely more than a whisper, after a long moment.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Tom, didn’t you get my letter?” she said.  It sounded like she was about to cry again.  “Haven’t you read the papers?”

“I’ve been out of town,” Tom said, looking down at the half-full box of Edmund’s belongings in front of her.  There was another sealed by the door.  “I’ve just gotten back.  What are you doing with Edmund’s things?”

“Tom,” she said again, her voice breaking.  It was the third time she’d said his name.  She was repeating it because she didn’t want to say what came next.  “There’s been an accident.”

The day after Tom left London, Edmund had gone to the train station to take a package to his cousin.  His little sister and his older brother had accompanied him.  The train took a turn too fast, and it derailed.  Their parents had been on the train.  Edmund was gone.  Edmund was gone, and so were Peter and Lucy and their parents and their cousin.  Aside from Susan, the entire Pevensie family had been wiped out in one fell swoop.  They were all buried together.  The funeral had been two days ago.

Tom had missed the funeral.

That made it more painful somehow.  He couldn’t help but imagine Edmund in his coffin, still freckle-faced and boyish, his beloved older brother and dotted on younger sister on either side of him.  Then Tom realized that a train accident would have been too catastrophic for an open-casket funeral.  He felt sick, and then grateful that Susan had been the one to identify the body, not him.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” Susan said shakily.  She’d had to tell him what happened twice before he understood.  It was several minutes before Tom was able to speak.  “I know… I know Edmund meant a lot to you.”

“He was the only good in me,” Tom finally said.  He felt like a raw nerve, a livewire.  He couldn’t think; he couldn’t breathe.

Susan gave him directions to the cemetery.  She tried to give him a box of things she thought he’d want to have—letters and ticket stubs and notes that Edmund had saved.  He wouldn’t take it though.  He left as soon as he knew where he was going and apparated on the street where anyone could have seen him.  He didn’t care.  The grief was blinding.  It was so sharp it made him feel like he was about to be sick.

The cemetery wasn’t far outside where Edmund and his siblings had grown up in London.  It was the house Tom had walked him back to in the summers before he left for university.  The cemetery was small, and it was easy to find the cluster of fresh graves.  Edmund was between Peter and Lucy, just like Tom had imagined.  The grass hadn’t yet begun to grow on the mound of dirt.  There was a plot left for Susan at the end of the row.

_Edmund Pevensie_

_1930-1949_

_Romans 14:8_

Tom knew that verse.  It was one of many they had drilled into his mind at the orphanage.  _If we live, we live for the Lord; and if we die, we die for the Lord. So, whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord._ He wondered who had selected it.  The logical assumption would be Susan, but it didn’t seem like something she would pick.  In the time he’d known her, she had been the least devote of the siblings.

Tom couldn’t say how long he stayed at the grave.  Finally, he stood—he wasn’t sure when he’d sunk down into the grass—and pulled out his wand.  There was no one the see him conjure a wreath of purple chrysanthemums and white lilies.  The flowers wouldn’t wilt, and Susan would know who had put them there.  This was the only display of remembrance he would allow himself.  It had been foolish of him to develop such an attachment to something death could touch.  Edmund had been a king, a miracle, but he died in a such a random, senseless, messy way.  A train accident.  It never would have happened if Tom had been there.

He didn’t return to his apartment.  He didn’t pack a bag or collect the trinkets from Edmund that he’d left behind.  The bag he’d taken on his trip would be enough.  There was nothing left in London, and there was no reason to stay.  The only person who had ever loved Tom Riddle was gone, and Tom Riddle was too.

The Dark Lord put his wand away and left the cemetery.  He had work to do.


End file.
